


they said we made a perfect pair

by orphan_account



Series: Widomauk Week 2019 [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Characterization Is Everywhere and Nowhere And Lost To 6000+ Years, Gaiman and Pratchett I'm Sorry, Gen, Good Omens AU, Loose Interpretation of The Word Reunions, Widomauk Week 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 06:31:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19079431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: How fucking inconvenient of him, really. Calling him of all people for help, and right in the middle of Armageddon of all things. Arrogant bastard. Like he's just some demonic lap dog for the angel, that he'll leap at the call of the bell like one of Pavlov's slathering hounds.Day 1- Reunion





	they said we made a perfect pair

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Save Me" by Queen

How fucking inconvenient of him, really. Calling him of all people for help, and right in the middle of Armageddon of all things. Arrogant bastard. Like he's just some demonic lap dog for the angel, that he'll leap at the call of the bell like one of Pavlov's slathering hounds. 

And it's not the wavering note he heard in his voice, or the panicked gasp, and the way the phone line disconnected into static that has him weaving in and out of cars like a madman. No, it's definitely not the way he had choked out his name, with that rare little note of fear under the usual unease, that has him white-knuckle, death-gripping the steering wheel like it's his mug when he's stuck at yet _another_ board meeting with Ikithon of all demons. No, definitely none of that, he's just, rightfully concerned. That's all. Nothing more, nothing less--

The radio cuts in with a belch of static before the knob turns on its own, the squeal and sharp _bring_ of a connection making him grit his teeth. 

"Azirapha--" 

" _Crowley_." 

He bites back the angel's name with a click of teeth. Not the bastard then. Just Astrid.

"Ja?" He sighs out, with all the enthusiasm of someone who's name the other's still haven't learned. 

It's been at least a century, you think they would get with the trend, yet only one person ever really caught on, and he's--  

"He wants to know the progress on the mobilization of--" 

Caleb slams the brakes, the car hitching and protesting under him as it stutters and screams to a halt. Thankfully, it's fretfully easy to spin the wheel with a huff, put his foot near through the floorboard again, and tear off around the man shouting at him, yappy purse dog cradled safely in his arms. 

"Look, Astrid," he starts, lacing his words with all the prettiest venom he can muster; rolled _S's_ and all, "it is really great to hear from you, of course it is, as always, and I would love to chat about how the whole end plan thing is going, but I am a bit--" he swerves around another car, the woman throwing up a rather rude hand gesture he sneers back at "--preoccupied at the moment." 

"This is the end of times we're talking about here, not some picnic date you can just-- just rain check on." 

A picnic? He should bring that one up to the bastard once he makes sure his feathery ass is okay-- He narrowly misses clipping another car, the blare of a horn drowning out Astrid's droning diatribe. 

"Ja, ja, apocalypse, end of all things, very invested, very intrigued in bringing about the war of wars, _as always_. Bought stocks in it and everything." 

"Don't be sarcastic with me, Crowley." 

"Caleb." he bites out under his breath, but she steam rolls over him into another earful he tunes out for the most part.  

"--and I will send word to Ikithon if you don't think you can handle this task, Cr--"

"No!" 

"What?"

"I mean--" He hits the horn, the man about to cross the street jumping back before he can be splattered and the convenient bag of groceries in his arms tumbling into the street. An unfortunate loss that Caleb colors with a perfectly cordial _'Verdammt! Move!_ ' out the window at him. 

Astrid is quiet on her end, the static snarling and all too loud in the silence of the car, and he really wishes she hadn't called so he could at least listen to some Sibelius, or better yet, call the book store again. See if it was all just a fluke and--

"Sorry--" He starts, realizing Astrids been left waiting too long. "I mean, no. _Nein_ , that will not be necessary of course, I have this handled. Everything is just...peachy." 

"Are you..." she pauses, the static burbling in her silence, "are you driving right now?" 

"...maybe." 

"Good, this works perfectly then. Just get to the Base and ensure the boy makes it to the--"

He takes another turn, mentally counting down the streets until he hits the correct one, with the shop tucked neatly into the corner. Astrid continues on, but he has only a quarter of an ear for it, the rest of his attention is on the plumes of smoke becoming steadily more visible the nearer he gets. 

"--now remember, it is imperative that you do not--" 

"Oh, tunnel ahead, might lose the connection soon." He bites out, eyes locked onto the street sign he's been looking for all along. 

"What? That doesn't even affect--"  

"Oh, _kssh_ , sorry-- what was-- _ksh_ \-- that--"  

"Crowley, I swear to god if you hang up on m--" 

"Going through a tunnel!" 

"For fucks sake, this isn't even a--" 

He hits the button to terminate the call, spins the wheel, and screeches around the corner with the tortured squeal of tires. The car fishtails under his control for a moment that sends his heart lurching before he rights it, and he slams his foot down on the pedal a little harder than necessary once he's cleared the intersection that swarms with the raucous cry of horns and rabbling. 

Whatever, he's been driving an automotive before these humans were even a thought, they're all the ones doing it wrong, not him.

The car lurches and growls under his palms and he flexes his hands around the wheel, rolling his shoulders and trying not to think about all the things that could be going absolutely, horribly, terribly, and awfully wrong as he avoids another near collision and incurs the wrath of some other human. 

"I swear to Satan himself, if you have gotten yourself killed--" 

He yanks the wheel, the car jolting under him as he pulls it, rather ungracefully, halfway up onto the curb outside the store. And it is generous to call it that he supposes, not when the outside is swarmed with emergency vehicles and the doors thrown open to cough smoke and belch ash. 

"Scheiße, Scheiße, Sche-" He fumbles at the door, all but spilling out of the car and onto the pavement that seems to buckle beneath his feet the more he gapes up at the curls of smoke. The acrid burn is nothing, familiar even, just another afternoon really, but this tastes wrong, like lost secrets and the tang of books turned to tinder. 

"Uhm, s--sir," a voice calls behind him, "if you park there I'll have to ticket you and--" 

"Ticket me then!" 

He doesn't look back to whoever decided to make his day even worse. Not when he's stumbling for the door hanging off its hinges, for the blackened and charred interior of a bookstore he knows about as well as his own home. And he knows the little potted succulent he gave him didn't survive, Phillip or whatever cutesy name he had given it, eaten up by flames, and he can only hope he didn't meet the same fate as well. 

The edge of the door crumbles under his palm and he stares at it, ignores the shouting of the personnel behind him. Lazily waving his hand to slam what's left of the flimsy barriers shut behind him as he steps into the skeletal sprawl of bookshelves. 

"Aziraphale?" He calls, kicking at the rubble, wrinkling his nose at a left over plume of cinders that turns under his touch. 

He's not sure what could have happened, everything had been just fine a bit ago, well sort of, till an apocalypse, still the usual. But there was nothing that could have-- nothing like this--  and gods, they even got the rarity's collection in the back didn't they? 

He plucks up the least damaged looking of the books he can, tucking them under his arm, and then cradling them. Adding more to his collection as he goes, knowing he wouldn't want them laying about, getting all sullied and stained like this. 

"Aziraphale?" He calls again. And the door to the back room is shut, oddly untouched amongst the rest of the shop. 

There's a noise behind it and he holds his breath, shifting the books so he can turn the knob and push the door wide. 

"Azir-?" 

A shuffling and subsequent tumbling and plinking stops him short. 

"Hallo?" He calls, stepping slowly, setting the books off to the side on the writing desk; safe and sound for now. "Anyone there?" 

"Did you at least save Tolstoy?" 

And he would recognize that voice anywhere; to the edges of this earth and countless others. 

He sighs, shoulders sagging, but that doesn't stop the burbling fire under his sternum. 

"You absolute, _dummkopf_." He snarls, stalking forward. "Do you know how worried you had me? With a phone call like that? I mean, are you out of your mind? For Hell's sake you could have called back from another line to let me know you were--"

"Caleb." 

He steps closer, squinting, and it is oddly dim in here, where it really shouldn't be. Caleb removes his glasses, peering into the corner where he thinks there's something-- someone curled up. And there's dark feathers, obscuring something from view. 

"Azir-?"

"I, ah, well… I don't think that's quite my name anymore." 

The feathers shift, moving familiarly, like a wing, and the longer he looks the more he notices they aren't all black, the tips still a shade of white, near grey. The figure uncurls, wing unfurling fully, and sure enough, it's Aziraphale, but, those aren't Aziraphale's eyes, nor teeth, nor horns. And the tail is a new addition to. The only recognizable thing, really, is the stupid dimple on his left cheek when he smiles up at him, but it's obviously a forced one, and one that looks nearly painful for the usually cheery angel to muster.

"I think maybe…" Aziraphale starts, and there's a catching gravel to his voice, like smoke-choked vocals. "It's Mollymauk now. Or just Molly, even..." 

Odd choice, but he was _Crawley_ once, Crowley after that, and then he chose _dog_ for himself, so it could really be worse couldn't it?

"Good name, you could always stand to do worse I suppose." 

The angel-- _former_ angel levels him with a hard stare and he shrugs.

"Ah, how did it--" Caleb licks his lips, unsure how to ask it, knowing full well it probably hurt, having all that goodness graciousness torn out of you and replaced with something a bit more _fiery_. 

"Well, for one thing, I don't think Gabriel and the others quite like me anymore." 

Caleb snorts. "And did you ever truly want the approval of those arschlochs in the first place?" 

Molly laughs, but it falters and wavers like disturbed water. "No, but I never really wanted _this_ either."

He didn't either, not completely, but sometimes you ask too many questions, get the wrong people burned. Circumstance and scenarios… and all that garbage. 

"Are you fully, you know…?" He gestures to the whole of the thing; from the horns down to the wings drooped along the floor. 

"Fallen? I don't quite know. I mean, it certainly appears that way, doesn't it?"

"Well... _'welcome to the club_ ', as they say." Caleb finger quotes, lips quirking for lack of anything better to do here, but drops it when Molly frowns further. "Ah, sorry, that was in poor taste." 

There's  a moment of silence he fills with fiddling with his glasses, unsure what to quite say to make this better. If that's even possible. 

"What do I do now, Caleb?" 

He looks up to see Molly staring at him, like he's got all the answers, and there's a long, lamenting moment where he wishes he did. And oh, _Lords of Hell_ , that voice waver and the little, distressed crack on the end of his name will get him murdered one day, won't it?

"Keep doing what you did before." He says with all the confidence of someone who stopped really giving a lot of shits ten centuries ago. 

"But… it's different now, it all… feels different. I don't know how to--" Molly tugs at his wing, the tail-- his tail now,  Caleb supposes-- whipping across the floor. "How do you deal with all of this?" 

"One day at a time." 

"Very funny." 

"I know you only stick around for my humor, so I might as well deliver." 

Molly chuckles (the first real, familiar thing of all that Caleb's seen of him since he's stepped into this room) before burying his face in his hands and letting out a sigh that sits heavy and horrible in the air. 

"Mollymauk…" Caleb breathes after a moment, the name foreign on his lips, but not unwelcome as he taps one of the books he managed to salvage. "We can… we can still make this work, I think." 

Molly glances up, brows furrowed. "Make what work?" 

_'This.'_ He wants to say. _'Us_.' He also contemplates. Whatever their friendship, companionship, damn near symbiotic relationship is. But instead he extends his hand for the angel-- well, the freshly, maybe, semi-fallen angel. 

"Stopping doomsday of course." He says instead, with all the bravery of someone who's accepted being a coward ever since he met the angel on the East Gate of Eden.

Molly smiles up at him, really and truly-- and the fangs are quite the addition to the other being aren't they-- before taking his hand. "Of course."


End file.
